It’s a little cold for June here in Western Pennsylvania. The grass is wet. My son’s grass is high, most would say, days past mowing. He doesn’t like yard work. Why buy a house with a yard, and even worse, one that just keeps climbing up? Compromise. Getting some things you want and some you don’t. I’m talking myself out of mowing his yard. It’s his, not mine. But I like to mow. Always have. Exercise and feelings of accomplishment. With each pass, a visible change. When I say mow, I mean push it. Retro.
Mowing the yard was my job as a kid. The future dangers of skin cancer never an issue when I donned my bathing suit to mow at high noon. When we bought our house, I mowed with a push mower. The yard was big. Later though a rider that I upset on the hillside. And finally my husband brought home his fancy zero-turn, and mowing became his chore. Except for those couple of years he worked in Alaska. So I mowed quite a bit with that fancy machine. But something was missing. Endorphins. The trade-off. Efficiency and ease for that stress-relieving happiness that physical exertion gifts you.